


all days are nights, and nights bright days

by Irratia



Category: Julie and The Phantoms (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Cuddling, F/M, Forehead Kisses, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Swearing, Yearning, all the kisses really, and a lot of it, funky fresh queer hijinks, i am SINGLE, lots of touching but like in an ace way, magical mystical bog boyfriend, sorta kinda its with bog man and lore, these tags are a mess and so am i, they are soft, uhhhhh yeah thats it, yeah so what exactly is this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 18:02:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29229687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irratia/pseuds/Irratia
Summary: Don’t go in the bog,alone late at night,and if you get lost, don’t follow the light.Turn back around, walk far away,so you might see another day.Reggie has never believed in the legends and songs his village spins about the Bog, and the Man that supposedly lives in it, even if Alex is slightly afraid of it. But when it calls to him, he can't resist it's beckoning, and he winds up finding more than he thought possible.(or: gays in the bog)
Relationships: Alex Mercer/Reggie Peters (Julie and The Phantoms), Alex Mercer/Willie (Julie and The Phantoms), Bobby | Trevor Wilson/Alex Mercer/Reggie Peters/Willie, Bobby | Trevor Wilson/Reggie Peters, Bobby | Trevor Wilson/Willie, Reggie Peters/Willie
Comments: 21
Kudos: 42





	1. Dusk - Day Bleeding Into Night

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Hello!  
> Welcome to the fuckery that is this! It started as a simple idea for a Boggie oneshot, it ended as a simple idea for a Boregallie multichapter (which is the official shipname for these four idiots, i have decided)  
> The title of the story is derived loosely from Shakespeare Sonnet 43, thanks to my lovely friend Meg (A_Tomb_With_A_View), because she suggested I use a shakespeare thing for a title.  
> This is... boy idek know. It has cottagecore, I tried to be creepy, it has a lot of queer idiots, I had a lot of fun writing, so I hope you enjoy!

_Don’t go in the bog,_ _  
_ _alone late at night,_ _  
_ _and if you get lost, don’t follow the light._ _  
_ _Turn back around, walk far away,_ _  
_ _so you might see another day._

 _Don’t walk in the bog,  
_ _when the moon shines bright,  
_ _for he will come out and smell your fright,  
_ _he’ll grab your hand, and lead you away,  
_ _so you will not see another day._

 _Don’t wander the bog,  
_ _when the wind is high,  
_ _don’t listen to its every scream and cry  
_ _to lead you away, to harness your fear_ _  
_ _and pull you from those who are dear._

 _Don’t listen to the bog,  
_ _when the sun’s in the sky,  
_ _the wind sings a song for the ones to die,  
_ _to sink in the mud and cry for help,  
_ _and sink, sink down to be one with the kelp._

 _Don’t go in the bog,  
_ _when you’re in despair,  
_ _for it will know and lead you to where  
_ _no one can hear and no one can see  
_ _and he leaves you no way out to flee._

 _Don’t go in the bog,_ _  
_ _and don’t trust in the wind.  
_ The only way out is if you turn round  
_and never look back, do not comply  
_when it cries out for you to die.

“Stop singing that fucking song, it’s creepy,” Alex says, lightly shoving his shoulder into Reggie’s. They’re on their way home, and walking along the fence that was built to mark the beginning of the bog, a warning to those who might wish to continue on without knowing what lies beyond. Dusk is settling on the day, the cool of the night bleeding into the leftover warmth of the day much in the same way colours bleed together in the sky, a marvel of yellows, reds, pinks, blues, and purples.

The sky is stunning, spanning over them with stars sparkling high above, the first heralds of the night, and the moon rises in the north-east, full and round, promising to light up the night as much as she can.

The late summer evenings have always been Reggie’s favourite. After the hot days, the earth around him always seems to breathe a sigh of relief, settling. Nightingales sing their hearts out, their melodies picked up by the soft breeze, carried along and dancing around his head, dispersing high up in the sky to be picked up somewhere else. The world smells of harvest and the first blackberries, of dried grass and the deep, earthy scent of peat wafts over from the bog. It’s shrouded in trees and thick bushes, tall ferns, a wall of green that seems to warn of entering more than it lures in.

He always walks on the side of the fence, shielding Alex from the bog. Reggie knows that Alex has never felt comfortable with it. And who’s to blame him, with all the stories of will-o'-the-wisps twinkling along a deadly path and whispered promises on empty wings enticing the unwary to seek their demise in the muddy waters. He never believed them. Of course it’s going to be a bad idea to wander into a bog in the middle of the night, mostly drunk and with the clouds covering the sky and light, which, as far as he knows, most of the ‘victims of the bog’ did.

It’s a legend in their town. That the bog is almost a living, breathing thing, that hungers for them, sings for them to join it and become one with it. Reggie doesn’t actually believe that either. It’s simply a more dangerous environment than the rolling fields and kind woods and shallow lakes they’re used to.

Alex doesn’t believe them, either. But Alex has always been a little anxious, and so Reggie doesn’t mock the bog, and doesn’t go out at night, and puts himself between it and Alex, to make him feel safer. He shoves back at Alex, a little more forcefully and he stumbles to the side, shakes his head, then rams back into him until they’re shoving at each other and stumbling off the path, giggling the way they did when they were children and the world seemed much brighter and less heavy around them. 

“You like my singing voice though, you prick,” Reggie says after he’s fallen into the soft grass near the fence, breathless and giggly. Alex, who always wins when they wind up shoving at each other because he’s got the height and also broader shoulders than Reggie does, steps closer and looms over him.

It’s not the most flattering angle for him, but the pink-streaked cerulean sky above him and the ruby-red light catching in his hair still makes him look, well, almost angelic. Reggie thinks, quite often, that Alex looks like someone who should have songs and ballads devoted to him, countless words and melodies spinning a tale of beauty and kindness and soft smiles, glinting eyes and golden hair. He looks like a prince in a story that is too small to contain him, a hero the world is not worthy of.

Alex looks down at him and smiles. “You’re doing it again.” His voice is soft and fond and he kneels at Reggie’s side, fingers dancing over the skin of his hand for a second before he grabs it and presses a kiss to his knuckles, before pressing the back of Reggie’s hand against his cheek. Reggie smiles. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. You’re staring like I’m something to behold, or to cherish,” Alex says, brows crinkling softly, and his eyes soft, the colour of waves lapping on a white beach, looking at him in a way that still makes Reggie’s knees week and his cheeks heat up. He sits up and unfurls his hand against Alex’s cheek. “You are.”

Alex rolls his eyes, like he always does, but leans forward anyway, and kisses Reggie. It’s one of the soft kisses. The ones that don’t speak of more, that aren’t for comfort, the ones Reggie knows Alex uses when he doesn’t find it in his words to express his feelings. Reggie knows the feeling. He leans into it, the soft press of lips and the sweet taste of apples still clinging to Alex’s lips, whispering all the unspoken words they know by heart. 

A stronger breeze blows past them, ruffling his hair and he pulls back, his hand still cradling Alex’s cheek. He looks to his side, through the fence, to see the wall of green on the edge of the bog swaying. “Guess the bog doesn’t like us.”

He laughs when Alex’s expression reverts back to his more annoyed one, the one that’s only for Reggie when he’s said something Alex wants to argue with. “Stop making jokes about it.”

“Or what? The scary bogman will come and drown me in mud?” Reggie cackles when Alex shoves his hand away and gets up, taking a step back. He looks down at him again, and sighs, deeply. “I’ll leave you here if you don’t get up right now, love, I’m not even kidding.” 

Reggie scrambles up, still laughing to himself, and takes Alex’s outstretched hand, leaning into him and up on his toes for a moment to press a kiss against his jaw. “I’ll protect you if it comes to it.” Alex snorts and shakes his head, but he squeezes Reggie’s hand just a bit tighter, and fastens his step just a smidge, as the night takes over and the day and the sky finally colours in with darker hues. The first nightingale begins its nightly serenade, the others joining in, a harmony of songs that accompanies them home. 

Their house is a bit further out in the village, not too near the bog because Alex doesn’t like it, but it’s theirs, and it feels more like home than the empty, broken husk of a house either of them grew up in, even though they’ve only lived there since the crocus broke through the warming earth this spring and the birds picked up their songs again. They’d decided to let Julie and Luke live in peace, just the two of them when they’re not visiting, after sharing rooms with them for years.

It’s simple, small, one bedroom and bathroom, a small kitchen Alex commands him around in, enough to fit the four of them if they want, and a living room with a fireplace he can’t wait to light in the winter. But it’s home, his and Alex’s home, and he can see the bog from the front door, and one of the lakes from the back, and it’s perfect.

“Do you really think that there’s a scary man out there, all alone, just waiting for some idiot to stroll in and be killed?” he asks, settling on the counter next to Alex, who’s rapidly cutting some vegetables for dinner, a pan already on the stove and a loaf of bread waiting to be cut on the table. Alex doesn’t look up, but Reggie has studied every line of his body, every single movement and twitch, every single thing about Alex for long enough to know he’s unsure about his answer, and biting his lip. “Not really, but it’s just. I don’t like the stories, I can never help but think how horrible those deaths must be, you know?”

Reggie nods slowly, chewing. “Yeah, I get that. But I wouldn’t let that happen to you, my dear.” 

Alex stops chopping and puts the knife, looking up at him. A soft smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, and he picks up a bit of bell pepper, handing it to Reggie. “I know you wouldn’t, but others might not have a Reg and die all alone out there.”

“ _And sink, sink down to be one with the kelp_ ,” Reggie sings. Alex looks at him for a long second, then shakes his head and steps into the space between Reggie’s legs. “I hate you, you know that?”

“Sure you do,” Reggie says, voice low, and Alex blushes the way he always does when Reggie uses this tone, pink spots blooming over his cheeks. Reggie kisses them, and then Alex’s nose and finally his mouth, and Alex steps closer into his space, bringing his hands up to cradle Reggie’s jaw. He pulls back too soon, tapping a finger on his nose. “Food, we need that,” he says and turns to the sink to wash his hands again. 

Reggie groans dramatically, slumping together, “Do we? Do we really?”

“Okay- yes, we do, Reginald, so we don’t die and you don’t come complaining to me in an hour about how you want to eat something.”

Reggie slips off the counter once Alex is cutting again, sliding his arms around his waist and leaning against Alex’s shoulders, breathing in his scent, still mixed with the slight tang of the first apples they picked today, and the hay that’s being rolled up right now, making the whole village give off the fragrance for weeks. Not that Reggie’s complaining. Late summer has always been his favourite time of the year after all.

He remembers the last cherries staining his skin in deep reds and purples, the sour taste of too young apples that tasted good solely because they were stolen and the thrill of it washed the bitterness away. He remembers Alex, always bathed in golden sunlight, laying in the grass and squinting up at him against the sun, the colour of his eyes more stunning than even the bluest of skies. And Luke, loud and brazen, shining brighter than the midday sun, running into one of the lakes, his laughter pearling off Reggie like the water off his skin. Julie, giggling so hard she can’t breathe with a stolen load of berries gathered in one of her skirts, whispering about the guys while sharing them in the shade of an old oak tree.

Late summers were filled with fun and soft memories, loud laughter, and familiar tastes and smells that thrilled only because they’d been missing for a year.   
Late summers are still his favourite time of the year, but with less margin now that he’s in his own house with Alex and his friends only a short walk away.

“I love you,” Reggie mumbles into Alex’s back. He feels Alex stop his rhythmic movement of cutting cucumber for a second, in which Alex leans back into Reggie’s chest. “I love you too. Now get the bowls for me please?”

“I see, I see, I’m only here to give you kisses and love and you use me for task fulfillment,” Reggie kisses Alex’s shoulder before doing as he’s told. Alex laughs and keeps making the salad, then cracks eggs into the pan and fries them, cuts generous slices of soft bread, the smell of it filling the kitchen as he toasts it in the leftover oil. “Get me some chives from the garden, love?” he asks, turning to Reggie. Some strands of his hair are falling into his eyes, and Reggie brushes them back before he grabs a pair of scissors and steps out into the small spot of clear grass they call their backyard.  
It’s actually Reggie who’s growing the herbs in their garden, because as much as Alex can cook, he can also kill plants in a matter of days. Reggie grabs a handful of the chives, and cuts it off, relishing in the scent that immediately wafts through the air. Another strong wind picks up, gripping at his hair and he steps to the side of the house, to look past the length of it at the bog.

Night has almost settled completely, the moon risen, and bright in the sky. In the silvery light that’s only dispersed by the last remains of the day at the edge of the horizon the wall of trees and bushes looms darker than in the day, high and tall, swaying. A slight chill creeps up Reggie’s back and he turns and returns into the house. Alex chops up the chives and sprinkles them over the eggs and they settle at the kitchen table across from each other, like proper adults. 

Reggie does the washing up, he always does, and Alex chooses a book from the shelf in the living room, settling on the sofa so Reggie can join him, press himself into Alex’s side while he reads it out loud. Words, written words, trapped on pages in writing, and letters that are hard to put down and harder to read, have been hard for Reggie for as long as he can remember. Alex brings them to life, breathing them out and sending them on journeys, little boats on a sea of story, that make sense to Reggie, that calm him with the soft and relaxed voice Alex uses to untangle them and set them in the right order.

He gets drowsy, with Alex lulling him to sleep with soft words and softer tones, but then another gust of wind grips their house and it groans. Alex tenses up, and Reggie presses a hand over his heart, drawing small circles into the fabric over Alex’s chest to calm him. “It’s probably just a thunderstorm, my love,” he whispers. Alex nods and takes a deep breath, the way they practiced when they were younger, before it gets too bad.

“I know, I know. But-”

“You’re afraid of the Man of the Bog,” Reggie can’t help it and grins, when Alex’s jaw sets and he rolls his eyes, _again_. 

“Shut the fuck up, sweetheart, it sounds like it might be a big one, and I don’t want your herbs to get blown away or drowned by heavy rain.” Alex sounds exasperated, fond, but exasperated, and Reggie can’t really blame him. He taps a decisive finger against Alex’s chest and pushes himself up a bit, so he’s hovering over Alex’s face, inches from his lips. “My herbs will be fine, thank you for pretending to care about them for more than seasoning, though.”

Alex lets himself be kissed, and smiles against Reggie’s lips. They put the book aside, and change positions, Reggie on his back, propped up by a pillow and Alex with his head pillowed on his chest, their arms around each other. Only now do the temperatures drop enough for them to do this again, in the height of the summer even holding hands seemed to be too much heat, and Reggie kisses the top of Alex’s head, feeling calmed and comforted by the weight of him in his arms.

“Why do you suddenly care so much about the bog, anyway?” Alex asks, his voice quiet and tentative. It reminds Reggie a bit of the rabbits they sometimes see in their garden. They’re sweet, but careful, ready to draw back if they feel unsafe. It’s the voice Alex uses if he’s unsure whether he’ll like an answer. Reggie, for once, doesn’t know if Alex will.

Usually he knows how Alex will react, based on years of experience and friendship, eventually love, and intensive studying of him. But Reggie doesn’t really know how Alex will react now, because, in all honesty, Reggie doesn’t know. Alex looks up at him, kissing the underside of his jaw lightly, raising a brow. 

The truth, as weird as it is, is that he’s been feeling as if the bog is calling to him. Not luring him to his death, as so many lines in the lullaby promise, but calling for him. It’s a beckoning, a call for him to set foot into uncharted territory, to find something. Or someone. It’s weird. But for days now, he feels as though the wind that picks up near the fence, bringing songs from birds far away or a cooling wave of air, likely picked up from the many little rivers and lakes spotting the area, or the smell of the last flowers blooming. As a promise of what lies beyond.

He sometimes thinks he hears words, or reckless laughter in the way the leaves rustle, or the creek trickles, the wind rushes, or the birds trill. But that’s not possible. The bog is nothing but that. A bog. And he usually believes in more stuff than Alex does. Believes in luck and wishes coming true when a shooting star races across the star, bright and beautiful, gone almost faster than it came. He believes in destiny, that he and Alex were destined for each other, but the bog _calls_. Sings. Beckons.

He can’t tell Alex that, though. Because as much as Reggie jokes about it, the bog freaks him out, and Reggie feeling enticed to go there won’t be calming. So he looks at Alex, who looks back at him, his face open and curious, the vulnerability they share clear in his eyes. “I don’t know, guess the song is just stuck in my head, I guess.”

The moon throws silver lights and pale shadows through the window, and he can still hear it. The bog. The storm they thought was coming is still yet to rage, but there’s plenty of conflicting emotions warring inside Reggie’s head. Alex has fallen asleep, is breathing softly next to him, nothing more than their hands connected now, and Reggie watches him, lightly, almost not at all tracing his finger over the soft curve of Alex’s back. 

He looks out the window, seeing nothing but the night sky and a sliver of the moon, and he looks back at Alex, looking at peace. Once Alex is this asleep it’ll take a good few hours until he wakes up again. So Reggie decides, and crawls out of their bed, getting dressed as quietly as he can. He stops, once he’s dressed, and looks back at Alex. 

If things go wrong... he can’t think about that, crosses the room again to kiss Alex’s exposed shoulder blade, a promise to both of them that he’ll be back. If anything, anything at all seems weird, he’ll turn around, he promises. 

The night is still when Reggie sets out. The nightingales too far away for him to hear them, and the grass rustling beneath his feet the only sound he hears. A breeze comes up from behind him, and the trees at the edge of the bog start moving, a dark sea raging against the backdrop of the starry sky. Reggie focuses on that, on the promise that he’ll do this once, and never again, and then he’ll come home to never tell Alex, because Alex will be worried. 

There’s a spot in the fence that’s loose, a few of the wooden planks attached only loosely, easy enough to move aside. Reggie hesitates, again, when he reaches it. He can still turn around, now. He’s still got the chance. He knows that once he’s behind the fence, he won’t be able to turn back.

It’s always been a flaw of his, that he can’t go back once he’s taken a step. Alex tells him it’s not a bad thing, unless the idea or situation is stupid and dangerous, that he likes Reggie’s perseverance and insistence on finishing what he started. Julie and Luke agree. But this is dangerous and stupid. Their house, his home, his Alex is too far away to see, so Reggie looks at the moon for answers.

He’s always liked her, to look at, more than the sun. The sun is good for lighting the world, dancing across Alex’s skin in a plethora of colours depending on the time of day. But the sun’s too bright to look at. The moon sits high up in the sky, silver and steady, a promise to guide his way. The crowning jewel on a backdrop of a million crystals on the dark blue blanket of the midnight sky. She steadies him. Reggie crawls through the fence.

It’s funny, he thinks, how many legends there are, how many songs and warnings, that the bog will kill all those who enter. The grass that rustles underneath his shoes is the same as it is on the other side, and the trees that stand up tall and high around him are the same as in the woods he knows. The moon lights his way, as Reggie follows his own path, makes his own path as there are none for him to tread on. The further he walks, the sparser the trees get, and he carefully fons his way around a thorny mess of raspberry and blackberry bushes, before the bog truly opens up for him.

In front of Reggie, as far as he can see, lies it. Still. Stunning. 

The moon reflects from the lakes and puddles, her form mirrored tenfold in the still waters. A myriad of paths has opened up for him, in smaller and broader banks of earth and tall grass, crossing, and winding between the pools. Reeds line the sides of the bigger ones, and he can see bearded iris growing from some of the shallower ones. It’s still, no wind, no bird song. Nothing to disturb the sight in front of him.

Reggie decides to explore it, makes his way through the landscape on careful feet, avoiding morass and slippery banks, backtracking and rerouting. And he feels almost elated doing it. The thrill of secrecy spurring him on, of new, undiscovered nature before him. Alex would like it, in the daylight. Reggie can imagine it, that it would look like the sky has come down around them with the last rain, the lakes reflecting its blue so they would feel as if they were wandering amongst a view only clouds and birds experience. Water lilies cover the surface of a bigger lake he’s close to, and he would pick a big and pink one, to give to Alex.

It’s beautiful and otherworldly, and Reggie forgets himself. He wanders further into the bog, and then, again, things change. The heat of the day has finally dispersed, and the lakes start rising, fog wafting up into thin sheets, dancing across the paths in front of Reggie in white and ghostly forms. An owl calls in the distance. And dread drops into his stomach. He doesn’t know whether he’ll be able to find his way back. Reggie stops and turns, but he can’t see far, fog blocking his view. It rises around him, shrouding the moon so much he can’t tell the time anymore. Reggie turns, and walks back in the direction he came, he hopes, but the world around him has turned white and nearly impenetrable and the fog pushes in on him, and his breath shortens.

Alex was right. And he needs to get back to him, to tell him. He needs to. Reggie stumbles, knees hitting the wet soil, and his hands catch his fall, coming away covered in dirt. He tries to get his bearings, but the fog presses in, and the night darkens, and he knows he’s let Alex down. Reggie scrambles up, trying not to run despite his instincts to flee screaming at him, and it sounds like something’s in the water to the right- no, the left of him. He hurries, as much as he dares, cursing himself for his stupidity. 

And things change again. Reggie stumbles onto a wider patch of grass, without the fog laying over it. He stops in his tracks. The moon reflects off the water once again, in the periphery of his view, but there’s someone there.

A young man, who looks to be about his age. He’s _beautiful_. Dark eyes stare back at Reggie, and black hair, accented by silver strands of moonlight tangled in it, frames a shocked face. He’s broad and tall, a loose white shirt hanging from his frame, loosely tucked into a pair of dark trousers. His feet are bare.

Where Alex looks like a prince, or an angel, a hero, the light of the day, and the promise of warmth, this man looks like the night. Dark shadows and silver movements, calm and serenity, although he’s painted in confusion. The man looks like the mystery that emerges in stories, something unknown and there to be solved, to be approached with caution but sincerity. He looks like the brooding stranger in the corner of an old pub in a fantasy story, the one who swoops in at the last moment to save the protagonist from idiocy and certain death. 

He’s stunning.

“Are you fucking stupid?” His voice is deep, earthy, and just fits, Reggie thinks. It takes him a moment to register what the man said. 

“Excuse me?”

He steps closer to Reggie, who automatically takes a step back. “What in the world are you doing here?”

Reggie stares at the way the moonlight shifts over the man’s dark hair when he moves, and the way the fog seems to close in behind him as if he’s somehow parting it. The dark eyes are settled on Reggie with an intensity that makes him want to run, but stay at the same time, and so he simply stays in place, rooted. 

“Uh-,” he says. The man studies him, and Reggie is suddenly acutely aware of how much of a mess he must resemble. 

“Do you want to die?” the man steps closer again, and Reggie doesn’t move, because he feels like he can’t. His feet have become heavy, feels as if they’ve become more part of the world around him than part of him, not listening to the way every other fiber in his being seems to scream for him to run. He manages to shake his head. “No, no I don’t want to die. I have-” he cuts himself off before he says Alex’s name. 

And good lord, Alex. If Reggie makes it out alive, Alex is probably going to kill him.

“Then what are you doing in the bog? In the middle of the night?” 

“Shouldn’t I ask you the same question?”

Reggie regrets it the moment he asks because it is pretty clear that this man is not… normal. It’s in the way he moves, sure of himself, not doubting his steps, the way the fog shies away from his touch and the moonlight seems to spin itself around him, lending him a silvery glow. The way he seemingly appeared out of the milky, foggy dark. He smirks, tilting his head slightly, his hair throwing traveling shadows over his face. 

It’s not… predatory, not exactly. But the moving shadows and the dark eyes and the appearance of the man remind Reggie of all the stories they hear in the village, of the dark and dangerous things in the bog, all the things to be wary of. He’s never believed them, and he doesn’t believe that this man is going to kill him, but there’s still unease creeping up his back.

“I think we both know the answer to that,” the man says, the smirk still on his face. “So, what are you doing here?”

“I’m lost,” Reggie admits. The man nods, exhales a puff of air through his nose with what sounds like amusement. “That’s fairly obvious. Why are you lost? Don’t they teach you to stay away from the bog in that village of yours?”

There’s a bitter note swinging in his voice, a slightly out-of-tune chord that disrupts the melody of his words, that intrigues Reggie. “They do,” he says, stepping forward himself now. “I never believed them, though.”

The man takes a step back, looking surprised. Reggie offers him a small smile, hoping he looks inviting and friendly, and not like a maniac smiling at strangely stunning men in a famously dangerous bog. The man squints at him slightly, as if trying to figure him out.

It reminds Reggie of the way Alex squints at mushrooms in autumn, deciding whether he’ll pick them or not, looking for the small distinctions that decide between light and death, or the way Julie and Luke scrutinize each other while playing a new piece of music.

“I- I just wanted to see for myself, if the bog really was that dangerous?” he offers, after a minute of silence that feels like it dragged on for ages. Time moves weird, out here. It was fast, flighty, exhilarating like watching a swift dance in the sky. Now it’s slower, seems to pull like the molasses Alex uses for gingerbread in the winter.

“And you decided to do that in the middle of the night?” the man asks, confusion still etched into his features, a lack of understanding for Reggie’s actions.

“My Al-. Someone I know would never let me go during the day.”

“Your person shouldn’t have let you go in the night either, less so than during the day. But I guess they don’t know you’re here?”

Reggie shakes his head and finally manages to pull his gaze away from the man, to look up at the sky. The moon still hangs high up above him, steady and bright as ever. A steady companion, he knows. She’s been there for him since he was a child, always there to illuminate his bedroom and light the way when he climbed out of windows and onto trees to escape his home and seek refuge in his friends. The moon keeps him company this time as well. 

The man sighs. “Come on then, I’ll lead you out.” 

Reggie’s gaze snaps back to him, as he looks at him expectantly, and the man of the bog, because that is who he is, sends him a small, encouraging smile.

“I’m Reggie,” Reggie blurts out, suddenly overcome by the intense desire to connect with the man. He’s fascinating, and Reggie wants to study him, and talk to him, and find out the truth behind the stories and the lullaby. Unearth his secrets carefully, with soft hands and practiced movement, and get to the core of his being. 

Starting with a name is good. The man looks caught off guard, but then an actual smile spreads over his lips, filled with amusement, and joy, and something like hope, a little spark on the horizon that might just grow into the blazing sun, if Reggie can help it.

“My name’s Bobby. Welcome to the bog, Reggie, let's get you out of here.”

Reggie follows behind Bobby, as he leads him back. He hopes. He hasn’t believed the tale of the man in the bog, but in the back of his mind, it’s always been an old man, with a long beard covered in moss, who emerges from the muddy waters or the swampy morass, to pull him in and down, as the lullaby suggests. Not this. Not him. Not a man his own age with a striking face and a soothing voice, who offers his hand on a particularly slippery, muddy part of the path, and doesn’t let go afterward. Not a young man in a loose shirt that keeps slipping from one shoulder to the other, revealing collar bones that shine under the moonlight, who tells him what to do and where to step with a deep, but soft voice.

It’s entirely unexpected and more welcome than he could imagine. The fog wafts all around them, but it doesn’t press in on Reggie anymore, and the moon follows along, as they walk, and walk.

Time moves faster again, and, surprisingly, they talk. It’s mostly Reggie, rambling about the surprising beauty of the moor, and asking Bobby questions. Above them, the stars shine but start to disappear. The sky has gone from almost black to a slate colour, and when the fog finally lifts, and Reggie sees the woods of the green wall in front of them, there’s a green sliver of light on the horizon in the west.

Bobby brings him to the fence, and suddenly Reggie lacks all the words he’s said before, as if his meaningless ramblings have sucked them from him, the way a heavy rainfall sucks the heat out of the air in summer, it’s welcome and uncomfortable at the same time.

“Thank you,” he finally says, squeezing Bobby’s hand that still holds his. Bobby nods, a thoughtful expression on his face as he gazes over the fence, to the faraway village that still lies in a deep slumber, covered in dew and blanketed by unawareness of the world of beauty and lakes, shadow and light, of the person that lives beyond this arbitrary barrier. 

“You’re welcome,” Bobby says, letting go of his hand, but staying there, swaying lightly on his feet, not unsteady, but unsure. “And thank you, too. It’s not often I meet someone else. Who isn’t drunk enough to die before I find them, or scared enough to slip and fall when they see me. I take it you can find your way home safely from here?”

A smirk crosses over his face again, not mean but teasing. Reggie grins, and nods. “I can, and I hope you do, too.”

Bobby nods, throws another glance over the fence, and then sends Reggie a last smile, before disappearing back into the trees. Reggie stares after him, watches the way the fog seeps through the trees now, having closed into a roiling mass of white, the same one that creeps through the village in whisps and clouds every morning in summer, dissipating with the sun rising in the sky. The grass is wet beneath his palms now, as he climbs through the fence, and he has to make sure he doesn’t slip on it on the way down a small hill.

The sky brightens as he goes back home. Green slowly blends into yellow, and the few clouds dotting the sky gain an orange glow, as the sun steadily inches its way to the horizon, waiting to douse the world in warm light. The moon still accompanies him, and the birds wake up around him. A fox cries in the distance. The world is the same as it was yesterday, but it feels different. Not in a bad way, but his encounter has thrown him off-kilter. 

The first rays of the sun pierce the last of the night sky, when Reggie finally toes off his shoes again, in the small hallway of his home. It still smells like the bread from dinner yesterday, and he finds Alex where he left him, in bed, still sleeping. 

Alex has this talent of falling asleep, and staying asleep, until the sun has risen. He rises with it, which is fitting. 

Alex is like a day in spring or summer, bright and full of light, full of life. He’s golden hair and blue-green eyes, a dusting of light brown freckles on shoulders, laughter that warms Reggie from the core, and soft hands that loosen the knots in his shoulders. He’s the lightness of the first warm days, and the storms that paint clouds green, when he has a bad day. He’s steady but vulnerable, open and there for Reggie, and he knows Reggie is there for him in return. He’s the soft whisper of a breeze, carrying relief in heat, and all the myriad of things Reggie adores about summer. 

Reggie feels guilt gnaw at him now, looking at Alex, still fast asleep. He moves to the bathroom, washing the dirt off his hands, and changing out of the muddy, slightly clammy clothes he wore in the night, into soft and clean new ones, smelling of the lavender soap Alex loves, and decides to make coffee.

He opens the windows in the house, letting the cool night air flood in, to cool it down before heat presses down again, and brews coffee, its smell filtering through the air. He hears Alex’s bare feet on the wooden floors, and then he wraps his arms around Reggie’s waist and rests his chin on Reggie’s shoulder. “You’re up early.”

Alex’s voice is still raspy from sleep, and Reggie twists his neck to kiss his temple softly. “I made coffee,” he says. Alex snorts and kisses Reggie’s shoulder, before untangling himself and grabbing his mug. They settle in their little garden with their coffees, and Reggie leans against Alex’s shoulder. 

They watch the last of the sunrise, and the world wakes up around them, swarms of birds spotting the sky as they set out for the day, and the last white wisps of mist disappearing into the warming morning.

“I went into the bog tonight,” Reggie offers into the comfortable silence, unable to hold it in any longer. Alex tenses up against his side, so he rushes to explain. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to tell you so you didn’t worry, but I’m back, aren’t I? It’s beautiful out there. I think you’d like it.”

And then, because Alex hasn’t said anything, but slid his hand into Reggie’s free one and is holding on tight, he tells him everything, rapid and breathless. He halts, for a moment only, before telling Alex about Bobby, as the sun begins its journey through the sky, and when Reggie has run out of words to spill, a river run dry, Alex sighs.

“My love, I wish you hadn’t done that on your own,” he says quietly. A knot forms in Reggie’s stomach. “But you did, and I can’t change that, but please promise me to take me along the next time you decide to find the man of the bog, yes?”

“So you believe me? And you’re not angry?”

Alex shifts a little, and Reggie is forced to look at him. Alex’s expression is soft and open, and his hair is still ruffled from sleep. “You’re not a good enough storyteller to make that up, and I was worried more than anything. But you’re back here with me, and that’s all that matters now, isn’t it?”

“I take offense to that, and I hope you know it,” Reggie says, and Alex laughs, shaking his head at him. “I want to show you, one day, if you want.”

It’s not his world to show off, he realizes that, but Reggie hopes to see Bobby again. To get Bobby to take them where so few have been before, and to let them in on little secrets, sacred spots. He wants Alex to meet Bobby, the day to meet the night, with him in between. Alex kisses him on the forehead, and takes another sip of his coffee, stretches out his long legs. “One day, maybe, okay.”


	2. Midnight - The Sky A Map of Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby doesn’t know when he gained a conscience. He just remembers standing in a shallow lake one day, mud wet and gritty underneath his feet and creeping in between his bare toes, the moon barely a sliver of silver in the sky, a pale light shining as if through a crack in the waning black dome of the night. The air around him had been frigid, and he remembers taking a gasping breath, so loud it scared a pair of deer near the shore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2!! once again different from what was planned but oh well, it be like that  
> i spent at least two hours looking up flowers in bogs and also symbolysm and also it's just. acephobia that so many flowers have pretty names in german and then sound like shit in english. it's just rude. big thank you to meg from A_Tomb_With_A_View at this point for helping me out with that!! <3  
> anyway, have bobby being gay and in love with willie  
> boregallie will be properly starting enxt chapter, not to worry  
> CONTENT WARNING for very brief mentions of death and su*cide  
> i hope you enjoy tho!!!

Bobby doesn’t know when he gained a conscience. He just remembers standing in a shallow lake one day, mud wet and gritty underneath his feet and creeping in between his bare toes, the moon barely a sliver of silver in the sky, a pale light shining as if through a crack in the waning black dome of the night. The air around him had been frigid, and he remembers taking a gasping breath, so loud it scared a pair of deer near the shore.

Things are hazy, at first. Flashes of days, seasons passing in two or three of them, blue skies replaces by cold white ice, splashes of colour on meadows and birds dancing in the sky melting into orange leaves and dark grey clouds. He doesn't really live, he doesn't think, he just exists, drifting along the edge of the woods and amidst white banners of fog, more a personification than a person. 

Then the wind starts whispering to him. It's no longer just the sounds of leaves rustling against each other and the gusts dancing over the lakes and rivers, rippling the surfaces and dancing through reeds. It accompanies him, he thinks. Picks up seeds of dandelions that flutter around Bobby in mesmerizing motions, before dispersing high in the sky, brings in roiling storm clouds that tower over the horizon in black walls and bring thunder and rain in particularly dry summers. 

He notices the fence for the first time around then, always blocking his way when he wanders too far in one direction, where the ground hardens and mud is replaced by sand and stone, a drier earth he doesn't like as much. The fence blocks him from what lies beyond, rolling fields and houses, orchards and roads, as far as he can see. He lingers, until people approach, and then he flees again, not knowing why yet, but fearing them.

Another flash of crunching leaves and bright red toadstools, of breath clouding in the air, silver tendrils in the moonlight, of a sparkling expanse of white around him passes. The fence remains at the edge of his thoughts, a barrier between him and something he doesn't know, untested grounds. 

He meets Willie in spring. 

The day is creeping over the woods far in the distance, vibrant pink and orange painting the few clouds in the colours of the crocus and tulips that have just begun to push through still cold and frosted ground. The last of the night remains, select stars Bobby has started to think of as friends, the moon again nothing more than a crescent in the sky, fading as the sun rises. Bobby knows the Bog. It's his home, familiar in smell and feel, every path explored and safe, leading him to where he wants to go and where he’s yet to be.

He knows it like the back of his hand, the one constant in his existence, the only place he knows. He can sense when things change. When one of the rivulets finally breaks itself a new path, when one of the trees finally snaps in a storm. When another person from the village beyond the fence stumbles into the Bog, drunk, lost, desperate, and loses their way. Bobby always tries to help, tries to rescue them, to lead them on the right path, but instead of following where the fog leads them, or staying put, or taking his hand to pull them out of the morass, they panic. 

This person, if it is one, is different. New. Still familiar, somehow. Bobby stumbles upon them in what he considers to be his favourite part of the Bog. It’s a meadow, surrounded by a small wood of birch trees, that throw shadows reflecting their barks, on a small island in the middle of the biggest lake he knows. The meadow is always calm, secure, some flowers spotting the grass in blots of colour almost every time of the year. 

When Bobby finally steps through the treeline, he sees someone in his meadow, and when they turn it’s a revelation. The sun rising after the longest, blackest night in winter, pale and bright in the sky. The first snowdrops announcing the colour to come, little bells dangling on green stems. The smell of scillas, when he steps into the sea of blue stars for the first time every year. The pop of pink in a mess of green and brown, raspberries ripening and promising a sweet taste.

A twig collapses under Bobby’s foot, and the person turns to him, warm brown skin aglow as the sun rises over the treetops, first beams illuminating him. A slight breeze plays with his hair, long and a deep, rich brown, and eyes the colour of the gemstones Bobby finds in rivers sometimes, that seem to glow golden from within. He smiles at Bobby, an obscure feeling of familiarity to him. The wind picks up, a capricious breeze pulling at Bobby’s hair, winding around him like it seeks comfort in playing with his shirt and dancing between his fingers. They take another step towards him, and Bobby moves forward, still curious and unsure but elated. This is a change, but a good one.

The wind sings in the trees surrounding the meadow and the few flowers that have braved the cold nights bloom, as the morning sun lights up the lake, yellow flickers of light skipping along the edges of small waves. Soft and new, old and hardened, they meet, in sleeping grass and a waking world, and something in Bobby settles, as his and Willie’s fingers touch.

Time doesn’t stop skipping, days still rushing past, bleeding into each other, mimicking the way the muddy stream meets the crystal clear one, blending until one when the waters tumble off the small cliff. But it slows down. Allows Bobby and Willie to settle with each other.

At least another year passes, until Bobby no longer wonders about the feeling of heavy arms around his waist in the morning, and the tickle of silken hair against his neck is more comforting than surprising. Until wandering on paths trodden only by him with fingers tangled in his and light steps falling only fractions of a second after is don’t irritate him anymore. Until solitude feels comforting but not like a necessity anymore. 

Even more time passes, flashes of daisies braided into brown locks and breezes carrying white petals in a warm imitation of snow. Laughter mixing with the rush of water and the birdsong, brown eyes glinting with mischief before all he sees is a flash of a grin and then he’s falling, falling into one of the cool lakes, the summer sun hot and high above and gently teasing hands following after, brushing wet hair out of his eyes and the water off his eyelashes.

The Bog stops being Bobby’s, only explored by him, and starts being Willie’s too. They settle into it, together, still following their own ideas, and thoughts, knowing soft smiles and gentle hands await them. 

Bobby starts experiencing time as less of a collection of flashes, lighting up a dark and heavy night, white and violet lighting splitting the sky in a crash of blinding colour. It begins flowing instead, like a river, colours around him meshing with each other, with some being memories, flashing bright and vibrant. 

Not only warm memories of Willie’s voice and Willie’s touch remain vibrant in that river though. He still wanders to the fence sometimes, wondering about what lies behind it, the village grown every time he faces it. Sometimes voices drift over, and Bobby can’t always understand the words being said, but the tone of them is clear. Fear and disdain are in there most often, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth and a cold feeling in his heart that he tries to shield away from Willie.

The first time he hears the song it’s with them at his side. It wafts over the fence in a lulling melody, the voice deep and heavy with sorrow. 

_he’ll grab your hand, and lead you away,_

_so you will not see another day_

They sing, and Bobby remembers the dozen or so people he tried to keep from that fate. The panic on their faces and their hands slipping through his grasp, strength sucked out of them through the cold mud pressing closer, short breaths shortening even further. Those who he could have helped, had they stayed, or followed what guidance he could provide. They sing about Willie too, and Bobby watches his face fall. The taste settling on his tongue is bitter, and angry, and he takes Willie’s hand and pulls him back into the safety and silence of the bushes and their bog as the song swells. 

Bobby comes back to the fence. Hears the song in its entirety, sung with sorrow and fear, coating every word in a poison he can bear but doesn’t want to subject Willie too.

Willie is the breath of fresh air after spending almost too long underwater, the ever changing face of dawn, freckled with stars. He’s the sun warming his skin in spring, the cooling breeze in summer, the swifts racing each other across the blue canvas of sky, the first frost glinting in all the colours of the world around him. Their soft touches surpass the feeling of soft fur against his fingers, their laughter now in place of the bird song Bobby used to call his favourite sound, the low murmur of their voice just before they drift off to sleep more calming than rain drumming a steady beat.

Bobby, once curious if slightly fearful of the village and the people beyond the fence, grows angry at them. The hatred, the unknowing and unfounded fear they have of him and _Willie_ burn in his chest, hot and unpleasant, a constant reminder of those he can’t save, try as he might. 

Years pass, until the time before Willie is nothing but a collection of images in his mind, until he can’t remember a time he didn’t despise the look of the fence, the voices of people, the tendrils of smoke rising from houses. Bobby can’t remember a time when he didn’t try to keep Willie away from the fence. He knows he doesn’t need to coddle them, but Willie is too good, golden and warm, to have to listen to that song.

But Willie is curious, as a young deer, as a rivulet exploring the ground, as a gust of wind testing the cracks and tunnels it might find a way through. It’s the only thing they really disagree on, because Willie wants to explore, to see and experience all there is, not only their bog, the scenery around them comforting and familiar. They also want to see what’s beyond. Bobby is glad to be where he is, safe and sound in between lakes and puddles, reeds and woods, their meadow a place of comfort he retreats to when he loses another figure to the night. 

Things change, they always do. Nothing stays ever quite the same out in the bog. Trees grow and flowers wilt, puddles dry out and lakes rise, night turns to day and day to night and the seasons pass by all the same, not caring for what they take with them and what is left behind. Summer is starting to pass the torch of scorching days and humid nights onto autumn, the colour of red and orange skies at dawn soon draining into leaves, and the white puffs of clouds making way for darker stormfronts that bring the much needed rain. Bobby is used to this, used to nights cooling the sweat on his skin, and Willie taking the last opportunities to spend the day without his shirt on, soaking in the sun, their skin a deeper shade of brown, still golden and warm to look at. 

He likes the change of seasons, that he has a rhythm every year, that things stay ever quite the same but somehow still don’t change in bigger ways than what is in nature’s will. He doesn’t expect it, when the sun sets and the first stars glint in the sky, and Willie settles into tall grass next to him, putting their head on his shoulder and threading his fingers through Bobby’s.

“I heard the song today,” Willie says, voice soft and hesitant. Bobby tenses, opens his mouth to speak and reassure Willie, but he presses on, rubbing his thumb over the back of Bobby’s hand. “It’s quite pretty.”

Bobby splutters, turning his head so he can look down at Willie who looks out over the meadow and at the lake glinting in the last daylight, birches throwing long shadows. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s unfair to you. Us,” Willie kisses Bobby’s shoulder before going on. “It’s wrong, but the man who sang it didn’t sound like he meant it. He sang it like it’s any old song, and he had a very pretty voice.” 

“Why were you at the fence?” Bobby knows his voice is harder than it should be, but he can’t help the worry that floods him, cold and brash, because Willie heard the song and Willie is too bright to be tainted by the ugly lies the village sings about him. Willie gives an amused huff and lifts their head from Bobby's shoulder, eyebrows raised. “To watch the people, petal. I’m there often enough, but you don’t like it, so I don’t tell you about it.”

A chill settles in Bobby’s bones, the first layer of thin ice, easy enough to break on a cold early winter morning. Willie tilts his head slightly, and uses his free hand to push Bobby’s hair out of his face. “Thistle, you know you don’t have to protect me from anything, I can decide to do what I want, right? I know you dislike the village and whatever lies behind that fence, but I’m still curious about it.”

Willie kisses his forehead and Bobby feels some of the chill melt away, the way it always does when Willie is around. He nods slowly, watches the dravite-like brown in Willie’s eyes glint with the golden flecks brought out by smiles and the last of the sunlight. Bobby grasps their hand in both of his, scars from years of scratching against bark and accidental cuts on sharp rocks marking a delicate pattern on the brown skin. The weight and feel of Willie’s hand in his is as familiar as the smell of the meadow around them and the ground under his feet, as the never changing rise of sun at dawn and the evening star at night.

“Have you heard the song before?” he asks, turning Willies hand in his, following the lines of his palm lightly with two fingers. Willie nods and sighs. “It’s really unfair to you, and usually I don’t like the way they sing it. It’s always with hate or fear of you, but they don’t even know you, so how can they judge?”

“That’s how people are, windflower, that’s how they’ve always been.”

Willie presses his lips together and shakes his head, their hair moving and catching the last bit of sun, gold glinting off of brown. “Not all of them, I think. The man I heard today, he was young, I think. He sang it without all of that. It sounded more like longing, or interest, like he didn’t think what they say about you is true.”

There’s a hopeful note swinging in his voice, like the first warm breezes in spring that whisper promises of what’s to come if only they’re awaited with patience. Bobby’s heart clenches at it. “Willie-,” he starts, but they cut him off. “I know, Bobbers, I know. It’s dangerous and they don’t like us, but maybe things can change. Someday.” 

Willie drops it then, Bobby can hear it in his voice and see it in the momentary falter of warm glow in their eyes, before they kiss his jaw and get up again. Bobby lets him go. They have conversations in this vein from time to time. More often that Bobby would like, especially lately. This is the fifth time this summer, that Willie has said something about the village and the people that have so clearly cut themselves off from them, that don’t want anything to do with them.

Bobby doesn’t trust them, knows they dislike him and Willie on senseless grounds. He sees the wood at one edge of the village receding every year, knows that they burn down bushes and small trees to create room for their fields. He’s scared of what they might do to his bog, and him, and Willie. 

And Willie is too good, too bright for them. The village thinks he lures wanderers and souls in, for them to drown in the muddy waters as if they take enjoyment in losing lakes to swim in. As if Bobby likes to be the reason people run and slip and fall, and don’t take his hand when he begs them to grab onto it so he can help. More often the deaths are a tragedy of their own making, the dying only dead because of a song and misconceptions. 

They don’t argue. Not really, not anymore. When they do, when they really argue the fog rises in angry white walls and the wind picks up, howling around them, storm clouds brewing overhead, and the lakes rise and the ground softens, ready to take them down. It’s happened only twice before, over this topic, and it’s been years since then. 

Whenever they stumble onto this, they take some time on their own. Bobby mostly uses it to wallow in guilt because he wants for Willie to be free and to do all they want, see every corner of the world and meet new people, not to be stuck here, with him. But he’s selfish, and he’s scared, and he fears sometimes that Willie will leave him behind once he finds someone else. 

The wind is a restless thing, without boundaries to adhere to, without limits to its power, and Bobby fears the day Willie remembers that. The bog only goes so far, the lakes are only so deep, the life span of the animals only so long. Bobby is limited, bound, in ways that Willie isn’t. One day they will realize that, and one day Willie might take off, and Bobby will remain, a tree stripped of its leaves and hollowed out by age and lightning-like pain, a skeleton reminder of what once was when the wind still sang to him.

Willie stands in the meadow, wildflowers at his feet and the breeze at their fingertips, and turns to Bobby. There’s a sadness in his eyes that he only sees when it comes to this topic. “Change might not come today, or tomorrow, but one day, nettle. I’ll be at your side when it does.”

Bobby gets to his feet, knees cracking like twigs, and makes the three steps it takes him to get to Willie. “Do you promise?” 

He can’t keep the slight desperation out of his voice as he says it, the edge similar to the sharp burn of icy water in winter, when he goes to fetch it. Willie softens immediately, moves closer. He’s smaller than Bobby, not by a lot but enough to have to stretch on their feet to kiss him. Now they just lay a soft hand at the base of Bobby’s neck, fingers sliding into Bobby’s hair with a reassuring force that solidifies him again, makes him feel rooted more strongly into the ground. “Of course.”

Neither of them are big on kissing each other on the lips, only doing it sometimes. Kissing is reserved for shoulders and fingertips, temples and foreheads, the tips of noses and the top of each other’s heads. They don’t understand the appeal of kissing each other on the lips when there’s so many other spots to be cherished, to whisper jokes and promises to. Willie’s hand rests on Bobby’s neck, weight familiar and comforting, and the dravite of Willie’s eyes shines at him even though dusk is coming to an end, and the moon takes over reign in the sky, turning a world of gold and vibrant colours into muted shadows and shades of silver. 

Willie smiles, a soft one, a sweet one, reminiscent of the hyacinths’ smell in spring. They press a soft kiss against Bobby’s right temple. “You know I wouldn’t leave you for the world, thistle. I just sometimes wish the world we have at our feet was bigger.”

“I know, I know. Someday, maybe,” Bobby watches the smile spread across Willie’s features, like the dawn shedding light on the beauty of the world. He’ll try to keep that promise. Change always comes when it’s least expected, after all.

And so it does. Bobby rarely sleeps when the moon is this high, this full. He stays curled around Willie in a bed of soft grass, the canopy of a tree above them, and listens to the world around him. The mice rushing through the grass not too far away, the cries of the foxes and the wolves singing somewhere in the distance. The gentle lapping of small waves from the lake, the rustling of leaves in the small breeze. Willie is still a bit upset, whether with him or the general situation Bobby cannot tell, but it’s been stormy all evening, until Willie finally falls asleep with Bobby’s hands in their hair. 

It starts off like it always does. A slight shift in the way the bog feels. A new weight to it, a new presence it isn’t used to. Bobby carefully sits up, closing his eyes and leaning back against the bark of the oaktree they sleep next to. She’s old and wide, and has a hollow between some of her branches that’s big enough for Willie and him when the rain starts pelting or the snow dusts the ground. The grass and the trees whisper to each other, of paths being walked on by someone they don’t know, and Bobby feels a familiar dread wrap itself around him. 

A thorny vine that creeps up his legs and his arms, digging into his skin with the bleak certainty that another person will try to flee from him and find their demise in their painc. He debates, for a fraction of a moment, whether he should just lay back down. But then things change. Something like joy travels through the air. A thrill, chased and found. 

Bobby hurries, to find whoever this belongs to. The vine still hinders his movements, he awaits the moment the feeling of lightness will change and panic creeps in, cold and uncomfortable. He sees a figure in the distance, when it does. Without thought fog starts rising, shrouding Bobby in white, hiding him away, while he tries to get closer.

Just once, just one time does he want for someone who’s entered the bog to leave it again. He focuses on getting where he last saw the person as quietly as he can, not disturbing them, choosing to cut his way short by wading through the shallows of a small pond. 

He’s trying to guide them, herd them back to the woods and the fence, and beg they never set foot here again. Their steps quicken, and Bobby scrambles up the bank of the lake, and stops, just as the white around him rips itself apart, and the moon directs her full force onto him. And the person.

It’s a young man, maybe a bit smaller than him, still taller than Willie. He staggers back, feet sliding on the dewy grass, and stares. Bobby can’t help but stare back.   
He glows. Not the way Willie does, like the sun rising over the horizon. He’s like the mirror of it, the sun waving a last brilliant goodbye before disappearing behind it. Instead of crocus and tulips, hyacinths and lilacs he’s asters and heather, sedum and lily turf. His skin is pale, similar to the nearly white petals of the wild roses that grow on the bushes on drier stretches in the bog, his eyes blue and intense, even in the pale light of them moon, rivalling the cornflowers that he admires for their intense blue, as if they’ve sucked it from the sky and the lakes to be their own little bit of the firmament, brilliant blue that somehow manages to be more vibrant than all the flowers surrounding it. 

His hair is brown, a shade or two lighter than Willie’s is, shorter, combed out of his face. His face is handsome, pretty even, and his mouth hangs open slightly, whether in shock or fear Bobby can’t really tell. He’s new to the bog, never been here before, fresh and soft, still scared of the waters on either side of the grassy mound they’re standing on, the fog less a comforting blanket and more a threat that closes in on him. Bobby can see it on the other man’s face, in the tension of his shoulders.

But the man stays, stares at him, drenched in moonlight and confusion, reminding Bobby of snowdrops that have just bloomed, the first life that has braved it’s way through the snow and into the cool air of spring. Bobby thinks of the snippets of songs, other songs, he’s heard drift over from the village, tales of love and light that he only applied to Willie before, but the ballads about lost princes and wayward strangers wandering in the woods seem more applicable now than they ever did before. Bobby thinks these songs should be written about him.

Still. This man is in the bog, in the middle of the night, lost and still wandering around like a complete moron. “Are you fucking stupid?”

Somehow, for some reason, the first words that tumble out of his mouth are these, and the man looks taken aback. He still doesn’t run, or scream, doesn’t take the steps all those before him did to ensure their demise. He closes his mouth and raises his brows, crossing his arms over his chest. “Excuse me?” 

His voice is melodic, less airy, in a way, than Willie’s is. Willie speaks the way the wind blows, fast and then slow, constantly changing, carrying conversations on soft breezes and yelling with gusts of wind strong enough to rip leaves from branches. This man speaks as though there is a melody building under his skin, that carries his words into a world, like he was born to be competition to the birds. 

Bobby involuntarily takes a step forward, usually he tries to keep his distance from the wanderers in the bog, to not scare them more and doesn’t come close until it's absolutely necessary. “What in the world are you doing here?”

The man watches Bobby, blue eyes searching his face, forehead wrinkling as if he’s debating something in his head, before he makes an unsure sound. Bobby studies him, takes in the tenseness of his shoulders and the light shirt and trousers he’s clothed in, tousled hair and mud on his knees, his hands dirty. He remembers people like this before, people who were surprisingly calm despite being lost, despite him appearing out of the fog or the dark. Those are the worst, those are the ones he works hardest to forget.

“Do you want to die?” he asks, stepping closer, because if the man does, the closer Bobby is the more chances he has at holding him back.

“No, no I don’t want to die. I have-” open shock now colours the mans face, and something else, something softer, that deep down reminds Bobby of dandelions, of Willie, though he can’t place what it is exactly, crosses over his face. Then it’s regret. It doesn’t look good on him, a wilted petal in an otherwise beautiful bloom, a dead tree sticking out in a wood. It doesn’t suit him.

Bobby looks at this man and thinks he should be seen by the light of day and the golden hour of the sun, just before it sets. That he should wear braided flowers in his hair, the way Willie does, and that there should always be a smile on his face, and light in his eyes, and a slight tinge of pink on his cheeks, again like the wild roses. He wants nothing more than to see him safe, and sound, on the other side of the fence where he’s guarded from the dangers the bog holds, even if the song overplay them drastically.

He’s easy to talk to, and easier to listen to, and his name is Reggie. Reggie talks a lot. He talks about the bog, without fear, but with admiration and an adoration that makes Bobby’s chest swell, and his hand is heavier in Bobby’s as he leads him back, the humanity of him tangible in a way that Willie’s existence isn’t. Willie has a weight to him, a touch and a smell and a feeling, but theirs is different to Reggie, who keeps slipping and tripping on paths that both Bobby and Willie could have walked in their sleep.

He decides to narrate their path, so that Reggie doesn’t get hurt. He doesn’t know what an “Al” is supposed to be, but he supposes that it’s important to Reggie, something he needs to get home to. He decides Reggie deserves to see the bog in its beauty under a full moon, and the fog retreats and disperses. And on their way back the sky begins to lighten, the stars twinkling silvery goodbyes as they start to blend with the sky one by one, and they wander through the marsh-marigolds, their smell wafting up and clinging to their hair and clothes. Reggie looks around with constant wonder, written so plainly across his face that Bobby almost can’t look away, fascinated by the man. He wants to study him like the flowers Willie brings him sometimes, the one’s he doesn’t look at often enough because the only flowers he really loves are the ones that remind him of the rising sun. He has a feeling that might change.

Bobby disappears into the woods to watch Reggie crawl through the fence, leaving, ironically, as the sun rises, and the last freckling of stars disappears, the moon holding out only so long before she, too, fades into the blue sky. Bobby watches Reggies retreating form, and feels something new bloom in his chest, as he follows the line of the fence until it curves and disappears into a gently sloping hill. 

He’s always considered his chest to be filled to the brim with mallow, pink and purple flowers growing wherever they can go, no room for anything else, just barely letting through enough air for him to breathe. But now there’s heather, just tiny little sprouts of it, growing. Reggie disappears into a small house, and Bobby watches the door close behind his back and the wind around him picks up, calling. He treasures the tiny bits of heather, but the mallow has always been there, as long as he can actively remember, and he turns away and follows the wind back into the woods and marshland.

Willie waits for him where he left them, leaning against the oak with his hair long and familiar, and his skin brown and familiar, and his eyes the colour of gemstones, not flowers. The sun will hit them soon, and he has his head against the rough bark of the tree and his eyes on the dancing leaves. Bobby doesn’t try to be quiet, knows Willie’s been aware of his presence for a while now. He appreciates the moments he allows him, to just watch and appreciate the steady rise and fall of Willie’s chest, and the strength of his jawline, the slopes of his cheekbones, the locks of hair flowing over his shoulders like the waterfall they sometimes go to. Bobby’s yet to hear a song that manages to encompass Willie. 

“Hey there, windflower,” he says quietly, when he’s just a few feet away from Willie. They open one eye, and smile, not saying anything, just opening their arms. Willie has always had broader shoulders than Bobby, and Bobby has always liked leaning against their chest, and grasping their hands between his.

It’s a well practiced routine of him sitting down between Willie’s legs, and leaning back while he wraps his arms around Bobby’s waist, and Bobby takes his hands and intertwines their fingers and twists so he can kiss the underside of Willie’s jaw. Willie leans his chin on Bobby’s shoulder and breathes out.

“You seem happier than you usually are when you’re away the whole night,” they say after a long moment, as they both watch the sun paint the sky with the colours of it’s arrival. Bobby doesn’t really know what to say to that, and just nods, watching the wisps of mist that still linger over the lake rise into the air and disperse in the brightening day. 

“I met a man in the bog, about our age, I think,” he starts, digging for the sprouts of heather that seem to have retreated. “He wasn’t lost, or looking to be. He was just curious, and he said it was beautiful here.”

Willie hums softly, encouraging Bobby to go on. He doesn’t know how far though. In the entirety of their existence it’s always been Bobby and Willie. Willie and Bobby. This new… growth, this new person is weird. Bobby thinks Willie would like Reggie. So he doesn’t go on, ust exhales and closes his eyes for a moment, letting the warmth from Willie’s body seep into his, and the sun caress his face, the ghosts of soft touches dancing over his skin. 

“Do you think he’ll come back?” Willie asks after a while, lips close to Bobby’s ear, then against his jaw, then on his shoulder. Bobby sighs. “I don’t know.”

“Do you want him to come back?” Willie’s voice is soft, and warm, trusting in him and free of judgement, only mild curiosity lingering in his words. Bobby stops rubbing his thumbs into Willie’s hands, and takes his eyes off the sun, rising in a bright orange, like a gigantic fox and cubs blossom. He stares into the brightening blue sky high above his head and thinks for a moment. “Maybe. I think you’d like him, and he’d like you.”

“So he’s not like a thorny, prickly blackberry bush then?” Willie’s grin is smug, Bobby doesn’t have to see it to feel it pressed onto the top of his head by soft lips, a quiet chuckle hidden in his hair. “No, he’s not.”

“Let’s hope I get to meet him, then.”

Bobby does hope, even if he doesn’t really want to admit it. The first night he wanders around alone, waiting for that shift in the air and that heaviness to return, that indicates someone unlike him and Willie has entered the bog. It doesn’t come, and he falls asleep under the oak tree while the moon begins its descent and the stars seem to sing him a silent lullaby, and with Willie’s arm around his waist. 

The second night he spends with his feet in the lake near the spot he met Reggie, from where he can see a lot of his bog, with water lilies at his feet, the white one’s glowing in the silvery light of the moon. A few shooting stars streak across the sky, stretched out and distorted in the water. In a neighbouring pond, the frogs and toads croak a discordant melody. When the waning moon begins to leave the mirror of the lake’s surface he wanders back to the meadow. Willie awaits him, and pulls him into a hug, their made up stories of fairies and leprechauns lulling him to sleep.

The third night Willie stays up with him, weaving a crown out of daisies that they place on his head, before cupping his face and kissing his forehead. He laughs at Bobby as well, when he fails to make a similarly pretty crown of flowers, even after years of practice. Bobby could do it, but Willie always takes his hands in theirs and shakes them, laughin, before guiding his fingers into weaving them together correctly. It still makes his heart flutter like it did the first time Willie reached for his hands. 

“Besides,” he say, picking a big, white, glowing daisy out of the grass. “You look better with them just in your hair.” 

Willie’s smile softens while Bobby tugs the flower behind his ear, together with some strands of hair, and his eyebrows draw together. They spend the night watching the stars and twirling flowers between their fingers, and dancing to the lone nightingale they hear here. 

The fourth night Bobby wanders the bog alone again, kicking pebbles into ponds and jumping the waterfall alone, frustrated with himself for getting lost in the fantasy of not all the people from beyond the fence being scared of him. Bitterness seeps in, begins squashing the little sprouts of heather that have sprung up between the mallow in Bobby’s chest. Willie sighs sadly in the morning, and peppers his face with soft kisses, before they start berating him for not waking him up to go to the waterfall.

The fifth night Willie wraps his arms around Bobby’s waist and lets himself fall backwards into the soft bed of high grass, laced with thyme and aquatic mint that release their fragrances. Willie keeps him there, one arm slung heavy across his waist, the other carding through his hair. Bobby decides to stop giving into the childish hope, and lays his right palm over Willie’s heart, rests his chin on the back of that hand and twists a strand of Willie’s hair around the fingers of his left. The night has gotten colder than the ones that came before, and Bobby is almost to the point of closing his eyes and letting the whisper of wind between tall grass and the low murmur of Willie’s voice guide him to sleep.

Then he feels it. The shift in the world around him. A familiar weight, even though he’s felt it only once settles. He shoots up like the weeds and the flowers do in spring, and Willie follows after him, in tune as they’ve been for years, an excited twinkle in their eyes. “He’s here?”

“He’s here,” Bobby confirms, springing to his feet, and pulling Willie up with him, pressing an excited kiss to the top of his head. Willie’s grin is bright, even in the pale light of the moon and the stars above them, lighting up the dark around them for only Bobby to see. 

Willie’s hand in his is familiar, and his footsteps are as quiet as Bobby’s, following after him with ease and a spring to their step. Bobby listens to the bog around him sing with silent anticipation, a joyful recognition of someone returning. The leaves on the trees bristle in the warm summer breeze that follows them, and Bobby sees some of the water lilies unfurl themselves to shine in an earthly imitation of the stars, different but still beautiful. 

They meet behind a wall of reeds, that blocks the view, and suddenly there’s another shift, and Bobby can barely recognize what it means, before he sees them. Reggie, still beautiful and new, and looking like a wild rose. And another man, young, around their age, probably.

He’s tall, taller than Bobby, and pale. His hair falls in elegant waves around his face, looking like spun gold interwoven with the white silvery light of the moon, and his features are all angles, sharp lines and edges. His eyes look like aventurine stones, not as bright as they would be with the sun hitting them.

He looks dulled, ethereal but dulled, in the moonlight, like the kind of person who’s beauty you can only really appreciate when the sun is shining on them. Like he can only really shine with the full midday sun on him, his hair probably like strands of gold, fine and soft to the touch, his eyes not only the colour of gemstones but also the clearer lakes and rivers, the sky at dawn, just before the sun rises, a blend of green and blue and yellow. He looks like a sunflower, that can only prosper with the light encompassing it. 

Here, in the pale world of night, the time that makes Bobby look the most like himself, the most beautiful, as Willie once told him, the other man doesn’t get to shine as brightly as he can. He’s different from Willie and Reggie in that regard, who glow with the moon above them as well as the sun, no matter which direction. The man, broad shouldered and clad in a similar outfit as Reggie, wide trousers and light shoes, a long sleeved shirt that laces up, although this man’s laces are fairly undone, looks between Reggie and Bobby and Willie. His hand is clasped tight in Reggie’s, who grins at Bobby so wide it looks like it hurts, even though it makes warmth bloom in Bobby’s chest.

Willie leans into him. “You didn’t tell me there were two. You didn’t tell me they were as pretty as the bearded iris are after rain,” they whisper. And he’s right, Bobby realizes. The two men are as pretty as a bearded iris after it’s rained, when the sunlight hits just so and refracts from the droplets of water on the petals, and the iris looks as though it glows from the inside. They see this kind of beauty rarely, but these men are like that.

Rare and beautiful, to be treasured.

“I didn’t know there were two,” Bobby says, while the taller man shrinks into Reggie’s side. Reggie, who hasn’t really taken his eyes off Bobby, or Willie, or both of them.

“Bobby,” he says, and there’s a softness to his voice that he’s heard before. “This is Alex.”

The way he says the name, carefully pronouncing it, glancing up at the other man as he says it, the way Alex seems to relax just slightly, tells Bobby all there is to know about the two of them. He smiles. “This is Willie.”

It’s awkward at first. Unfamiliar. Roots trying to find purchase on rocky ground, searching until they find fertile ground to bore into. But Reggie and Willie slot together like they were meant to, after a moment of initial confusion, and Bobby and Alex are left behind to try and catch up with them. They do, somehow. And they walk, and talk, coming to rest on a dry patch of grass, huddling together, and time rushes by, fast and full, and once again, the stars fade above Bobby, and the moon ducks behind a treeline, and the sky begins to remind him of Willie, and he was right.

The first brightening strip on the horizon matches Alex’s eyes, and the first rays of golden sunlight illuminate his hair, and Alex’s laugh warms a spot in his chest that’s very close to where Willie’s sits, and Reggie’s smile makes the heathers grow.

A new day rises over the bog, and Bobby feels a new flower sprout in his chest. Daffodils, golden and delicate, tiny still, but strong.  
And deeper, still buried in the soil of the unknown future, an even more vibrant thing. Blue, delicate, forget-me-nots.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm queer, I'm single, I keep writing stuff that makes me yearn, a lot.  
> Big thank you to Meg, once again, for suggesting I write this when I couldn't decide what to write, you have made me have an identity crisis over writing a ship including willex, that isn't only willex, and this doesn't even have willex yet, which,,, wow. I love them.  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed, as per usual (tho I do forget) i am not a native speaker so sorry about grammatical mistakes.  
> if you feel like talking/yelling, about jatp or in just general, you can find me on tumblr as [on-irratia](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/on-irratia)  
> have a good day/ night/ rest of time! :D


End file.
